


There is no Snake in this Garden

by PositivePumpkin



Series: Reversed!Omens AU [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley is Raphael, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Other, Reverse Omens!Au, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2020-07-08 23:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19877638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PositivePumpkin/pseuds/PositivePumpkin
Summary: In many universes, the temptation of the apple in the garden of Eden was carried out by a snake. In this one, however, it was carried out by a bird.This is a Reverse!Omens au fic, based on the lovely art from Speremint on Tumblr.





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This au was brought to my attention by the wonderfully talented Speremint on Tumblr. Here's a [ link ](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186401300745/only-one-1-person-asked-me-my-opinions-on-a-role) to the art in question!

A beak could be seen poking out of the ground, before an entire large bird emerged. The bird quickly shook of the dirt and ruffled out it’s feathers. It took a moment to be vain and preen its enormous wings until it was satisfied, before flying off in search of its target.

The bird found Eve sitting alone, and quickly settled down on a large rock behind her. He clicked and murmured in her ear of the delicious fruits in the garden, in particular, the forbidden apple tree. After all, if God didn’t want the humans to eat from it, why put it in the garden? Temptation accomplished the proud bird sat and watched as the humans ate of the fruit and were shortly after discovered and kicked out of the garden by an angel with long red hair, wielding a flaming sword.

Later, after the humans had left, the bird saw the angel watching from one of the garden walls and flew up beside him, before turning into his humanoid form. This man, or man-shaped being rather, was just slightly shorter than the angel. He had hair so light it was almost white, but for the faint hint of blonde. His eyes were blue, but startlingly had multiple pupils. Behind him, his large black wings stretched out, before folding neatly, marking him as one of the Fallen. A demon.

It was the angel who spoke first, surprising the demon, “Well, that went down like a lead balloon.” His tone was droll. The angel rocked from foot to foot, his large white wings twitching restlessly behind him for a moment, before seeming to relax. Long curly hair bounced as the wind began to pick up.

“What did you say?” the demon asked incredulously, shocked the angel was even talking to him and hadn’t tried to smite him.

“Said, that went down like a lead balloon.” He replied, enunciating carefully, almost tonelessly. The angel motioned carelessly towards the humans off in the distance, still walking away from the garden.

"Yes. Yes, it did rather.” The demon replied, not taking his eyes from the angel next to him. “Bit of an overreaction if you ask me,” The demon paused for a second as the angel inclined his head to show he was listening, but continued watching the humans, “first offense and all.”

The angel seemed to consider this for a second, “not sure what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil. Well, it must be bad…” The angel trailed off, looking at the demon, as if asking for its name.

“Fell.” The demon said, tonelessly.

“Fell,” The angel said, one eyebrow raised, “bit on the nose innit? Well, it must be bad, otherwise you wouldn’t have tempted them into it.”

“Ah,” Fell, his voice falling in pitch as he purred, “they just said ‘get up there an’ make some trouble.’ Well, obviously, I’m a demon. It’s what I do.”

“Not very subtle of the Almighty,” the angel said, the thoughts causing a wrinkle to his brow, “a fruit tree in the middle of the garden and told not to touch. Could’ve put it on a mountain or the moon.” He sighed, and took a deep breath before continuing, as if he was reciting something he’d heard dozens of times, “best not to speculate. All part of the great plan. It’s not for us to understand.”

“It’s ineffable,” Fell said, a smile tugging at his lips. _What a strange angel._ “It is beyond understanding,” amusement coloured his tone, bleeding into a mocking tone, “and incapable of being put into words….” Fell trailed off, realizing something was missing from this angel. “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

The angel startled and looked away. If Fell didn’t know better, he swore he could see the faint dusting of a blush on the angel as he began to stutter out all sorts of noises. He jumped on the opportunity to needle at this, “you did! It was flaming like anything! What happened to it?" After a second or two, when it didn't seem the angel could figure out a response yet, Fell continued, "Lost it already, have you?”

It took a moment for the angel to really respond, several aborted noises came from his mouth before he somehow managed to mutter out a petulant, “gave it away.”

“You what!?” Fell exclaimed, absolutely delighted by this. 

“I gave it away!” The angel said, finally turning his gaze onto Fell. And _oh_. _That’s not fair._ The angel had the loveliest golden eyes, with a heart-wrenching look about his face. “There are vicious animals, it’s going to be cold out there, and she’s expecting! And, oh, I never even wanted the thing, and I said ‘here you go! Flaming sword! Don’t thank me. And don’t let the sun go down on you here.’ Hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”

“You’re an angel, don’t think you can do the wrong thing.” Fell replied, all honey and soothing. He looked off, and sure enough there was Adam, fighting off a lion with the flaming sword. “Been bothering me, what if I did the right thing, with the whole ‘eat the apple’? Demon could get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing.”

“Be funny if we both got it wrong, eh?” The angel looked at the demon from the side, keeping his head turned towards Adam and the lion. “If you did the good thing and I did the bad one?” A smile tugged at the angel’s lips.

“No!” Fell smiled, laughing a bit, “wouldn’t be funny at all!” He looked up as the sky rumbled, staring at dark clouds before he could even think about it, he found himself putting a wing over the angel's head. He carefully did not look when the angel's head snapped to look at him. He waited until the dear scooted closer under the protection of his wing, before glancing back at him.

“You know, I never did get your name, dear boy.” Fell inquired, still watching the angel’s face carefully.

The angel looked around for a moment, his eyes settling on the black wings of Fell before his lips quirked and he said, “Crowley.”


	2. The Early Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mesopotamia and Golgotha are trying times for the angel known as Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this fic when Crowley is presenting as female, their pronouns will also be female. The reason for that, is that this is in writing and I want to make it clear when Crowley is presenting as male versus female.

**Mesopotamia 3004 B.C.**

A small group of humans were clustered together, watching as a boat was being loaded up with two of every animal. Much discussion was had about what was going on. The demon Fell looked on at the construction of the ark, idly wringing his hands together.

“Hello, Fell!” A familiar, but most unexpected voice called out from behind him. He turned to see Crowley walk up next to him. He hadn’t much changed, hair still a riot of long curls, trailing down to his chest.

“Crowley?” Fell couldn’t help the incredulous tone as he looked over his companion. “So,” he drawled, “giving the mortals a flaming sword, how did that work out for you?”

_Crowley placed the last block in the wall, filling up the hole that Adam and Eve exited the garden out of. He stared at his work a moment when he felt Her gaze on him. A brilliant light shone down on him, squinting he looked up towards Heaven._

_“Raphael, Archangel of Healing.” Her voice was clear._

_“Yes Lord?” Crowley didn’t need to sweat, being an angel and all, but the scrutiny of Her gaze made him feel as if he might. Instead he squinted up into Her light and stood still as he could._

_“Where is the flaming sword I gave you, Raphael? To guard the gated Eden?” Was that annoyance in Her voice? Oh Lord, Crowley hopes not._

_A series of aborted attempts at starting the sentence occurred before Crowley finally managed to stutter out, “Sword? Big, sharp, errrr cutty-thing, yes.” He tried not to look put-out under Her gaze, but it was a near thing. He was the Archangel of Healing, what business did he have with a sword in the first place? He pressed against the stone wall behind him, before looking around, “Uh, Oh, Must’ve, Uh, Must’ve put it down here, somewhere?” He looked back up, just as the light of Her gaze left him, “Forget my own head next.”_

“The Almighty has never actually mentioned it again,” Crowley said, distracted by all the comings and goings around him. “Probably a good thing,” he muttered, sad eyes watching the children chatter excitedly, before looking back to the ark.

“What’s all this about?” Fell asked, “build a big boat and fill it with a travelling zoo?”

Crowley stuttered a bit, and really, Fell shouldn’t find that half as charming as he did, “God’s a bit tetchy at the moment.” He focused his sad, golden eyes on Fell, before he quietly whispered, “wiping out the human race.” His voice broke as he continued, unable to get much more out than, “big storm.”

“All of them?” Fell asked incredulously, looking around at the humans surrounding them, eyes glancing over the children as well.

“The locals,” Crowley said bitterly, gesturing around him, “don’t believe the Almighty is upset with the Chinese. Or the Native Americans. Or Australians.” Crowley chewed on the inside of his cheek a moment, looking down at the ground before muttering out a quiet and petulant, “Yet.”

“God’s not actually going to wipe out _all_ the locals,” Fell said, motioning to Noah, “I mean, Noah, up there, his family, his sons, their wives, they’re all going to be fine.” He petered off at the end. Dear Lord, was he trying to cheer up this angel?!

“But they’re drowning everyone else,” Crowley said, angry and bitter. At Fell’s terse nod he continued, sneering, looking briefly at some children running past before turning his angry gaze back to Fell, “The _kids_. Can’t kill kids.”

“Well, that’s more the kinda thing you’d expect my lot to do,” Fell said, a sharp, disingenuous smile on his face. He kept glancing at Crowley from the side, it was obvious the whole situation was breaking the angel’s heart.

“When it’s done,” Crowley said, sounding more like he’s trying to cheer himself up at this point, “the Almighty’s going to put up this new thing, called it a ‘rain bow,’ as a promise, not to drown everyone again.” The effect was ruined however, when he sneered and said mockingly, “how kind.”

“You can’t judge the Almighty, Crowley,” Fell whispered harshly to the angel. Fool angel was going to find himself Fallen, talking like that. And why did Fell even care?!

“God’s plans are-“ Crowley looked at Fell, silencing him before he could interrupt, “Were you going to say ineffable?”

Fell pursed his lips together irritably, “Possibly.” A nearby whinny distracts the two, and before he can think better of it, Fell is crying out, “Oi! Shem! That unicorn’s going to make a run for it!” Said unicorn is already running off, soon to be among the drowned, certainly. “Oh, it’s too late,” Fell tutted, before yelling, “It’s too late! Well, you still got one of them!”

The sky rumbled with God’s anger. The odd pair looked up and sure enough, big fat drops began falling from the sky before starting up a real squall. Some of the children and people behind them were raising their hands up, welcoming the rains. 

It was later, on the ark that two beings (and more) who weren’t supposed to be on the boat crossed paths. When the demon saw Crowley huddled with a dozen human children, no doubt stolen from the local area before the storm got bad, he smirked but didn’t say anything. The embarrassed flush from the angel at having been caught going against God’s plan was enough for him. The angel said nothing about the demon stowaway, and the demon said nothing about the angel’s stowaways. Perhaps the start of a beautiful arrangement.

**Golgotha 33 A.D.**

A small crowd of onlookers watched as Jesus was being nailed to the cross. Some women were crying, but all were solemn. Among the crowd, standing out in an all-black outfit with matching black head-wrap, was a familiar demon.

“Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?” Crowley asked, walking up to the demon. The demon did a double take when he saw the angel wearing a white dress, soft pinkish rope belt cinched around the waist, and an off-white shawl that had a spill of red curls flowing out of it.

“Smirk? Me?” He sputtered, insulted, “Well, your lot put him on there.”

“I’m not consulted on policy decisions, Fell.” Crowley muttered, keeping her eye on the proceedings.

“Oh, I’ve changed it.” The demon said, inclining his head a little.

“Changed what?” Crowley’s attention was now focused on her companion. The strange demon that couldn’t seem to stop being wherever Crowley intended to be. Like reverse stalking, showing up in places Crowley already planned on being.

“My name. ‘Fell’ wasn’t really doing it for me.” He looked for a moment like he sucked on a lemon, before biting out, “You were right, bit on the nose.”

“Well, you did- er, nevermind,” Crowley began, before thinking better of that statement. She opened and closed her mouth a couple times before she decided to try and shove on, “So, what is it now? Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?” Her lips quirked in a sly smirk.

“Azirafell.” He said dryly, looking up at Crowley, barely not rolling his eyes.

Crowley hummed, “It’s nice, err, it’s a nice name that is, for a demon. Very demonic, yes.”

The sound of the hammer slamming down and a cry of pain brought the two back to what was going on around them.

“Did you,” Crowley winced at the sight before her, “ever meet him?” She squinted against the tears beginning to form in her eyes.

“Yes,” Azirafell murmured, almost soothingly, “Seemed a very bright young man. I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.” 

“Why?” Crowley asked softly, golden eyes wet with unshed tears.

The demon rolled his eyes, puffing up slightly, before grumbling, “He’s a carpenter from Galilee. Travel opportunities are limited.”

A loud smack of the hammer and a sickening crunch and squelch caused Crowley to flinch back, eyes squeezed shut against the torment before her. Unbidden the wetness in her eyes fell down her cheeks.

“Oh. That’s got to hurt.” Azirafell looked around at the people gathered, “What was it he said that got everyone so upset?” He looked back to Crowley, his eyes briefly caught on the tear tracks on her face, before flickering back to her eyes. 

Crowley licked her lips before softly whispering, “be kind, to each other.”

“Oh yea,” Azirafell nodded along, frowning a little, “that’ll do it.” The pair stayed as the cross was raised. Azirafell watched solemnly as tears streamed down Crowley’s face, yet she didn’t make a noise. Every bit of her was begging to go up and free Jesus, to heal his wounds. But it wasn’t her place, and so she stayed until well into the night. Azirafell eventually cajoled the angel into leaving, promising her a drink and some company.


	3. Things get a little better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley is a bit of an arse, but he gets over himself, and Azirafell is thinking up an arrangement.

**Rome 41 A.D.**

“What’ve you got?” The familiar voice brought Azirafell’s attention up from his game. “Give me a jug of whatever you think is drinkable,” Crowley grumbled. He was wearing a white toga with pink embroidery on the edges, a golden laurel was in his short, tightly curled hair, and a pair of amber glasses rested on his nose.

“Crowley?” Azirafell walked up, to the sullen angel. Azirafell was wearing a black toga, held in place with a silver pin made to look like some sort of bird. When Crowley turned to regard Azirafell, he could see that a golden brooch, resembling a Rod of Asclepius, held Crowley’s toga. “Fancy running into you here!” Azirafell exclaimed while grabbing a seat nearby. “Still an angel, then?”

“What kind of stupid question is that? ‘Still an angel’?” Crowley bit angrily, “what else am I going to be? An aardvark?” Both beings resolutely ignored that there _was_ something else the angel could’ve been.

“Just trying to make conversation,” Azirafell pouted, put out by Crowley’s snippy behaviour.

“Well, don’t,” the angel growled. Crowley must’ve realized he’d been acting like a bit of a bastard, as he sighed and offered a sort of olive branch, “cup of wine? It’s the house wine—dark.” He looked over to the bartender and asked her for a cup for Azirafell.

After pouring the wine and toasting, Azirafell tried to start the conversation back up, “In Rome long? Just nipped in for a quick temptation, myself.”

“Oh?” Crowley inquired politely, “tempting anyone special?”

Azirafell looked at him a moment, as if trying to puzzle him out. He smiled tightly and replied, “Emperor Caligula. Frankly, he doesn’t actually need any tempting. He’s already appalling. Going to report it back to head office as a success. You?”

“They want me to influence a boy called Nero. Thought I’d get him interested in music. Couldn’t hurt.” By Crowley’s tone, it didn’t seem to be going too well. “So,” he stretched out, forcing his long limbs to relax, “what else are you up to while you’re in Rome?”

“Thought I’d try Petronius’ new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.” Azirafell licked his lips thinking of it.

“I’ve never eaten an oyster.” Crowley remarked, sounding like he might’ve been curious what one tasted like.

“Oh, well! Let me tempt you to…” Azirafell trailed off, as Crowley regarded him. He was looking down his nose at Azirafell, but there was mirth in his eyes, and he hid an obvious smile behind a sip of wine.

“That’s your job, isn’t it?” Crowley asked, slyly.

**Wessex 537 A.D.**

The fog is thick, and everything is damp. It’s an utterly miserable affair and Crowley is not having it. He’s trudging uphill is a suit of platemail with a white cloak clasped to his pauldrons. He lifts his faceplate up, scowling into the fog. The man behind him, leading his horse stops a few meters away, looking around nervously.

“Hello?” Crowley calls out into the fog. He’d really like to get out of this blasted armour and back to someplace warm. “I, Sir Crowley of the Table Round, am here to speak to the Black Knight!” A small, shuffling man beckons Crowley forward. “Oh, Hello?” Crowley implores, “I was hoping to meet the Black Knight.”

“You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one.” A man in pitch black armour steps forward heavily, the voice is quite familiar, “but you have found your death.”

Crowley blinks in the face of the dramatic entrance before sputtering, “Is that you under there, Fell?”

“ _Azira_ fell.” The demon lifts his faceplate and regards Crowley with a smirk. It’s been awhile since they’d last seen each other. He rather missed the company.

“What the hell are you playing at?” Crowley hissed at the demon.

Azirafell rolled his eyes before inclining his head to the side and calling to the guys behind him, “It’s all right, lads. I know him. He’s all right.”

Crowley looked off behind Azirafell, as if he just remembered they were supposed to be doing something here. “You here spreading foment?”

Azirafell frowned, looking contemplative, “What is that, some kind of porridge?”

“No!” Crowley scrunched his nose indignantly and bared his teeth, “you know, fomenting dissent and discord. I’m here, er, fomenting peace.”

“King Arthur’s spread a bit too much peace and tranquillity in the land,” Azirafell pursed his lips and closed his eyes for a moment, before deciding to humour the dear boy, “So I’m here, you know… fomenting?”

Crowley groaned and let his head fall back as much as it could with the armour. “So, we’re both working very hard in damp places and just, cancelling each other out?”

“Well, you could put it like that.” Azirafell regarded Crowley, mulling over what he was saying. “It is a bit damp,” he said, almost as an afterthought. He brow was slightly furrowed in deep thought. He made a sort of humming noise before drawling, “be easier if we’d both stayed home, and just sent messages back to our head offices saying we had done everything they asked for, wouldn’t it?” He tried for a charming smile, but it came off a bit sharper than intended.

“That would be lying!” The angel sounded positively scandalized. His nose scrunched and his mouth was still open, staring at Azirafell as if he’d grown another pupil—er head.

Azirafell inclined his head, “Possibly, but the end result would be the same. You just said it, we cancel each other out, my dear fellow.”

“They’d check!” Crowley cried, trying to make his companion see why this is a terrible idea. He pouted a bit, “Gabriel is a bit of a stickler. And you do not want to get Michael upset with you.” He had a far off look, as if he was remembering a bad experience.

“Our lot have better things to do than verifying compliance reports from Earth,” Azirafell tutted, as if he wasn’t talking about lying to Hell. “So long as they get the paperwork, they seem happy enough.” He lowered his head a little and tried his best pleading look, “I mean, as long as you’re being seen to be doing _something_ now and again…”

Crowley’s head did a little wiggle as he sputtered indignantly, “No! Absolutely not!” He really did look offended now, as he kept shaking his head, “I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing.” Crowley began turning around and walking away, he called back behind him, “We are not having this conversation. Not another word!”

Azirafell threw up his hands, and huffed, “Right.”

“Right!” Crowley said, turning around briefly to look at him, before storming off in a huff.


	4. Still Prefer the Funny Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shakespeare gets his big break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be editing the first chapter to be up to date with the current canon from [Speremint](https://speremint.tumblr.com/). Only the last paragraph or so will be changing. If you don't feel like going back and reading it, just know that all that changes is whose wing is over whom. Also, updating the rating to Teen for the next chapter.  
> Just a reminder that this is not my au, it's Speremint's. I just write stuff based on it.

**Globe Theatre, London 1601**

The theatre was quite barren, only a few people in the audience were chatting among themselves or dozing in their seats. A woman was walking around selling kippers, grapes, oysters, and oranges. Azirafell eagerly magicked up a coin for some grapes, the coin returning to his pocket as soon as it was out of the lady’s sight. Anthony walked in, looking around at the sparsity.

“Thought you said we’d be inconspicuous here,” the angel circled around Azirafell, “Blend into the crowds?” He looked up at the man on stage half-heartedly going through his lines.

“Well, that was the idea,” Azirafell plucked a grape from the vine and offered it to his companion. “Grape?”

Anthony opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Azirafell popped the grape in it and gave a cheeky smile. Anthony looked down at Azirafell and chewed slowly and thoughtfully. He looked around once more, as if coming to some sort of realization, “Aw, hang on. It’s not one of Shakespeare’s gloomy ones, is it?” He let his head fall back and body slump in a full body pout. “No wonder nobody’s here.”

“Shh, it’s him. It’s him,” Azirafell hushed, looking absolutely ecstatic Shakespeare was talking to them.

“Prithee, gentles. Might I request a small favour?” Shakespeare asked, clasping his hands together, before continuing beseechingly, “Could you, in your role as the audience, give us more to work with?”

“You mean, like when the ghost of his father came on, and I shouted, ‘He’s behind you!’” Azirafell bounced on his feet. Anthony rolled his eyes, amused by his friend’s enthusiasm.

“Just so!” Shakespeare continued to talk, animatedly moving his hands about, “That was jolly helpful. Made everyone on stage feel appreciated.” He started walking backwards, turning slightly, “A bit more of that.” He then turned to the man on the stage playing Hamlet, “Good Master Burbage. Speak the lines trippingly!”

“I am wasting my time up here,” the young man whined. The man looked at Shakespeare before glancing at the odd pair that Azirafell and Anthony made.

“No, no, you’re very good,” Azirafell’s tone was rich and soothing, sugar-coated words with demonic intent. Shakespeare pointed to Azirafell, as if to say ‘see?’ At Shakespeare’s expectant look, the demon continued, “I love all the… the talking.”

“And what does your friend think?” The man lifted his head and looked down at them before indicating the angel next to Azirafell.

Azirafell looked over at his friend a wide and joyous smile on his face, before he sobered. He paled and started lying, “Oh, he’s not my friend. We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other.” No one believed him.

“I think you should get on with the play,” Anthony had steadily been growing more and more amused at the demon’s panic. At Shakespeare’s insistence Hamlet begins is soliloquy again, only to be interrupted by Azirafell’s charming attempt at being a more interactive audience.

“To be! I mean, Not to be!” He looked over at Anthony’s amused expression, “Come on Hamlet! Buck up!” The actor gave a half-hearted thumbs up and went back to reciting. Azirafell leaned into his companion’s space, “He’s very good, isn’t he?”

“Age does not wither nor custom stale his infinite variety,” Anthony said, resolutely watching the actor on stage, and definitely not taking peeks at Azirafell behind his shades.

“Mm, yea I like that.” Shakespeare said, before writing it down on a scrap of paper and wandering off to watch from the side again.

“What do you want?” Azirafell asked, as Anthony started circling him like some sort of predator waiting to pounce. Which was ridiculous, Anthony might be an angel, but he certainly was no predator.

“Why ever would you insinuate that I might possibly want something?” Anthony said, a smile on his lips. The bastard definitely wanted something then. “You are up to no good, obviously.”

“And you are up to good, I take it? Lots of good deeds?” Azirafell asked, as Anthony circled back around to his other side. “No rest for the wicked. I have to be in Edinburgh at the end of the week. Tempting a clan leader to steal some cattle. Doesn’t sound like hard work.”

“Oddly enough, _I’m_ meant to be heading to Edinburgh too this week.” Anthony drawled, watching Azirafell closely. “A couple of blessings to do, and a minor miracle to perform. Apparently, I have to ride a horse to get there. Hard on the buttocks, horses. Major design flaw, if you ask me.” The angel groaned. Anthony was a being of love. He loved all of God’s creations. But he certainly loved horses the least.

“I’m always expected to ride those big black jobs. With flashing eyes.” Azirafell agreed, with a pout. And Anthony was circling back to his other side again. He’d feel hunted, but Anthony was so non-threatening it was more amusing than anything.

“That was why I thought we should,” Anthony said, low and tempting. It was times like these Azirafell remembered to steadfastly not allow this angel to Fall. He’d be too bloody good a demon. “Well, bit of a waste of effort. Both of us going all the way to Scotland.” A pleading lilt and a tilt of his head.

“You cannot actually be suggesting,” A glance at the ground, “What I infer you are implying.” Azirafell stated, if he’d known the angel would be this for the arrangement, he never would’ve said anything in the first place. Wasn’t he supposed to be the foul tempter here?

“Which is?” The blasted angel was actually going to make him say it wasn’t he?

“That just one of us goes to Edinburgh and does… both,” Azirafell risked a glance to his companion, but the angel looked away. “The blessing and the tempting.”

“We’ve done it before. Dozens of times now,” Anthony said smugly, before finishing off in a sing-song lilt, “The arrangement.”

“Don’t say that.” Azirafell chastised. He made brief eye contact with Anthony before they both looked away, as if making sure their surroundings were well and truly clear.

“Our respective head offices don’t actually care how things get done. They just want to know they can cross it off the list.” Anthony said, parroting back the phrase that had started this all. Azirafell may have suggested it back in Wessex, but Anthony, once he got his mind on it, really jumped on it.

“If Heaven found out, they wouldn’t just be angry,” Azirafell pleaded, trying to make this fool angel understand why this was a bad idea. “They’d destroy you.” Or worse—make him Fall.

“Nobody ever has to know. Toss you for Edinburgh,” Anthony said, holding up an Elizabethan coin. Azirafell’s eyes zeroed in on the coin, and Anthony knew he’d won. Whatever hesitation Azirafell had melted.

“Fine. Heads.” Azirafell watched as the coin flipped in the air before Anthony caught it and placed it on the back of his hands.

“Tails, I’m afraid. You’re going to Scotland,” Anthony said, not looking at the demon. Did he cheat? No, he was an angel. Although, he wasn’t a very good angel half the time. Azirafell decided not to comment on it.

“It’s been like this every performance, Juliet,” Shakespeare could be heard saying to the lady selling food, “A complete dud. It’d take a miracle to get people to come and see _Hamlet_.”

Azirafell looked up at Anthony, just as Anthony looked back at him. He gave it his best pleading look and watched the angel shake his head no, before giving in with a hiss, “Yes, alright. I’ll do that one. My treat.”

“Oh, really?” Azirafell smiled warmly at the dear boy. His eyes shone with joy and Anthony could only pretend to be put out.

“I still prefer the funny ones,” Anthony grumbled as he sauntered out, hips moving in that inhuman way of his. Azirafell snapped his gaze from Anthony’s hips back to the play at hand and popped another grape in his mouth, smiling all the while.


	5. Date With a Head-Cutting Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Azirafell wants crêpes and Anthony just wants to spend time with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor warning for mentions of death/gore. It's not graphic, but it is there, so here's your warning.

**Paris 1793**

A light shone down, haloing the demon sitting on a stool in a French dungeon. He was wearing black and blue English aristocrat clothing, which had been a bit of a bad idea in retrospect. Azirafell regarded the heavy, and frankly uncomfortable chains cuffed to his wrists. He chewed the inside of his cheek, contemplating whether it was worth the miracle or not. On the one hand, he didn’t want to go back to Hell, that would just be embarrassing, but he also didn’t want to have to explain the miracle.

Cheers. Joyous screaming. He looked behind him, out the small, barred window. He could just barely see the top of the guillotine. He looked away before it could fall, but he still heard the sounds. The _shink_ of the blade falling, the wet, harsh slice of a man’s neck, and the faint thump of his head landing in the basket. He probably shouldn’t have been able to hear that as well as he did, what with the noise of the crowd, still cheering, but he did.

The door opens and two guards flank a smaller, portly man. The man begins speaking French, but Azirafell’s French is very outdated, and even then, he only really knew how to order wine and some foods. When the man started reaching for him, going for his neck, the demon jerked back. A poor attempt at French was made, which probably didn’t help his case any.

“I speak English.” The man said. Another _shink_. Another wet, harsh slice. Another thump. A woman this time. “Listen to that, the fall of the guillotine blade. Is it not terrible?” The man backed away and began circling Azirafell, much like the angel did, but this one didn’t give him any secret pleasure.

“Yes,” Azirafell tutted, thinking for a brief moment there might be some hope in getting out of this, after all this was just a big misunderstanding. “Cutting off that poor woman’s head. Terrible”

“That is Pierre. An amateur. Always he lets go of the rope too soon. You are lucky that it is I, Jean-Claude, who will remove your traitorous head from your shoulders.” Azirafell rolled his eyes at this man’s proud boasts.

“Look,” Azirafell tried again, “this is all a terrible mistake. I don’t think you understand-“

“English aristo spy,” Jean-Claude interrupted, spitting his words, “you have perhaps half an hour to live, until you receive the kiss on the neck from your new lover, Madame Guillotine!” He began pointing emphatically, “but I have good news for you: you are the 999th aristo to die at the guillotine by my hand.” And at this point he got a twinkle in his eye and a smug grin, “but the first English.” The man walked behind Azirafell, “Now,” and he started to pull Azirafell’s jacket and shirt collars down to reveal his neck.

“No,” Azirafell practically jumped out of his seat, and turned on the man. He grumbled, mostly to himself as there was no way this human would understand, “Dreadful mistake discorporating me, there’s paperwork to fill out when I get back, it’ll be a complete nightmare.” He turns from the human, just as the man turns to the small window before he stops stock still and the sounds of the crowd outside are silenced, “Animals.”

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, fiend,” A wonderfully familiar voice says calmly from behind him, “Only humans do that.” He sounds both bitter and begrudgingly impressed by their ingenuity.

“Anthony,” he can’t hide the joy in his voice even if he wanted to. He turns, and there’s Anthony leaning against the bars of the cell, sitting on a stool that wasn’t there before. Azirafell looked him up and down once, Anthony was wearing a rather nice French peasant ensemble, mostly white with golden buttons and a pink shirt. He also had a new pair of gold-tinted glasses and tight curls in his hair. “Oh, good Lord,” Azirafell said, swallowing noticeably, he tried to sound disapproving, but he couldn’t hide his smile.

“What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille? I thought you were opening a pawnshop?” Anthony said incredulously, his brow furrowing slightly. He didn’t even look the tiniest bit strained despite having stopped the flow of time, was that a power all angels had? Azirafell couldn’t recall, but it certainly didn’t seem run-of-the-mill.

“Well, I was,” Azirafell said, before adding, with a soft sigh, “I got peckish.” And he never even got to eat the crêpes he was craving, such a disappointing visit all in all. It was beginning to look up though, now that Anthony was here.

“Peckish?” And there was disapproval mixed in with the incredulity. A raised, unimpressed eyebrow.

“Well, if you must know, it was the crêpes.” Azirafell sighed, before moving to sit back down on the stool, the chains rattling as he moved. “You can’t get decent ones anywhere but Paris. And the brioche…” he inclined his head a little, eyes far away as if he were thinking about the bread, rather than his current predicament.

“So, you just popped across the Channel, during a revolution, because you wanted something to nibble? Dressed like that?” Anthony gave a little hand wave to the way Azirafell was dressed. It wasn’t bad, per say, just English and posh, which was the whole of the problem.

“I have standards.” Azirafell huffed indignantly, once again giving Anthony a look over. He adjusted his seat to better face the angel, chains once more jingling.

“Why don’t you just perform another miracle and go home?” Anthony sighed, resolutely ignoring the chains for the moment, selfishly wanting to revel in the demon’s company.

“My lot sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance. So, I thought I should find out what they were commending me for.” Azirafell said, not really explaining, but letting the angel come to his own conclusions.

“So, all this is your demonic work?” Anthony said, louder than probably was necessary, aghast at the thought of the demon contributing to the horrors outside, “I should have known!”

“No, humans thought it all up themselves, nothing to do with me.” Azirafell huffed, standing back up, shocked that Anthony could think such a thing after so long. And just like that, the angel was calmed. What a foolish angel, believing the word of a demon so easily. In this case, it was of course true, Azirafell had nothing to do with what had been going on.

“You’re lucky I was in the area.” Anthony said, voice low and rumbling, that familiar coy smile back on his lips.

“I suppose I am.” Azirafell wasn’t going to complain, assuming the angel actually freed him and wasn’t here to gloat. Then a thought occurred to him, “why are you here?”

“I heard they were getting a bit carried away here but…” The angel let his head fall back onto the brickwork and let out a very old and very tired sigh. “This is not getting ‘carried away.’ This is cutting off lots of people’s heads very efficiently with a big head-cutting machine.” He looked back to Azirafell, eyes once again landing on the chains cuffing his- _the_ demon. “Right,” he said with a snap of his hand, the chains falling loose and heavy by Azirafell’s feet.

“I suppose I should say thank you? For the, er, rescue.” Azirafell said, rubbing his wrists lightly, knowing full well he shouldn’t thank an angel for rescuing him, a demon. His wrists were only slightly chaffed from the chains.

“Don’t say that.” Anthony was standing now, looming in a way unbecoming of an angel, or, perhaps very becoming of an angel, seeing they were soldiers of God. “If my people hear I rescued a demon, I’ll be the one in trouble.” He was close now, within striking distance certainly, not that Azirafell was scared, this was Anthony, the softest angel he’d ever seen or heard of. When he looked up, the dear boy was looking at Azirafell’s wrists, staring at the chafe marks, “was reprimanded last month. Said I’d performed too many frivolous miracles. I got a strongly-worded note from Gabriel.”

An unspoken apology for not healing him? Azirafell was a demon, he didn’t need doting on, even though he secretly enjoyed it. He sighed, “my lot don’t send rude notes. They send Hastur. Or Ligur, if you’re lucky.” Azirafell pulled the cuffs of his sleeves to hide the marks, even though it was too late. “Well, anyway, I’m very grateful. What about if I buy you lunch?”

“Looking like that?” Anthony said, more amused than anything. He’d easily divert attention if the demon really wanted to keep his outfit.

Azirafell rolled his eyes, before with a wave of his hands he was wearing the executioner’s outfit, perfectly tailored to fit him, despite the man he took it from being much larger. He turned back around to regard the man, who was now wearing Azirafell’s outfit, before looking at Anthony out of the corner of his eyes. When he noticed the amused smirk, he tutted, “barely counts as a miracle, really.”

Anthony snapped both his fingers, starting time back up as though it was a mere parlour trick. When the two guards from before came and dragged the confused man out, the pair just stood there and watched. “Dressed like that, he’s asking for trouble.” Anthony said, a sort of grim satisfaction for the man getting what was about to come to him. He pushed the dark thoughts from his mind and turned to regard his friend, “so, what’s for lunch?”

“What would you say to some crêpes?” Azirafell said, with a giddy smile, lighting up his whole expression. And with that face, how could Anthony possibly say no? 


	6. A New Store is Opening Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Azirafell doesn't know what's going on and Anthony is a trickster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT:  
> Someone else wrote this scene with these characters but with the angels coming for Raphael instead of the other way around.  
> [LINK TO THE FIC](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19904134)

**Soho, London, 1800**

Azirafell stood outside his new shop, admiring the look of the place as a sign painter writes ‘A. Z. Fell and Co. Pawnbroker and Purveyor of Rare Goods.’ He felt no small amount of pride and satisfaction at having the store up and soon to be running. “Jolly good. It looks absolutely tip-top,” he said to the sign painter before walking into his brand-new shop, practically bouncing with each step.

The shop was filled with empty shelves and was smaller than it would be in the future. Azirafell was whistling as he placed items he’d obtained over the years on the shelves. He felt a swell of pride as he looked at his surroundings. At the sound of the bell being hit by the door, he sighed, “I am afraid the shop will not be open until Friday, good people. But we will be having a grand opening immediately after lunch.”

“We aren’t here to buy things, Azirafell,” Beelzebub buzzed, annoyance clear in their voice. They were actually looking presentable: no dirt, pustules, or flies buzzing about. Behind them was Hastur, still covered in dirt and smelling awful, trailing some kind of debris and slime behind him.

“Oh, Lord Beelzebub,” Azirafell turned quickly then bowed slightly, letting it hang in the air a moment, before straightening back up. His fingers twitched nervously, so he tightly grasped them before he said, “Listen, if it’s about that business in Paris, um, it wasn’t my miracle.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about Bird,” Beelzebub sneered, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Then they sighed, “we are here with good news.” Her nose scrunched at the word ‘good.’

“Oh, how lovely.” Azirafell said, calm as he could, certainly not believing for a second there was actually good news. Nothing is good when it comes to demons, after all.

“We’re bringing you home.” Beelzebub said, mockingly, opening their arms out before clapping them back together.

“Promoting you back downstairs.” Hastur grumbled, clearly not happy about it. He was getting dirt and who knows what else all over the new floors, and Azirafell couldn’t look at him with anything but disgust, so he didn’t look at him.

“I’m opening this pawnshop on Friday. If Mister Hatchard can make a go of it, then I think I can really….” Azirafell began, trying to explain away why he couldn’t leave, but it was mostly just nervous rambling.

“It’s an excellent idea. Whoever replaces you up here can obviously use it as a base of operations.” Beelzebub said, waving the concern away with a motion of their hand. They were clearly bored of this conversation and eager to get a move on. 

“Use _my_ pawnshop?” Azirafell said, disgusted at the thought of some other demon in _his_ shop.

“You’re being promoted. You get to come home.” Beelzebub said, slowly, enunciating carefully like he’s being particularly stupid.

“Can’t imagine why anyone would want to spend five minutes longer in this world than they had to.” Hastur grumbled, whose input was once again not wanted.

“Azirafell has been here for almost 6000 years. We must applaud such devotion to duty.” Beelzebub rolled their eyes and dismissed Hastur. They pulled out a little box with a medal in it, and offered it to Azirafell and droned, “it hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

“I don’t want a medal,” Azirafell said before he could stop himself. It wasn’t even a nice one.

“That’s very, _noble_ of you,” Beelzebub sneered. They tossed the medal to the side and it was destroyed in flames before it hit the ground.

Azirafell looked out desperately, trying to come up with anything to stop this, before he sees the worst thing he could possibly see. There, outside his store is a white Bentley carriage, and a familiar angel getting out of it. The angel waved once and smiled cheerily, he started his walk up to the store, the door still wide open.

“But only I can properly thwart the good deeds of the angel Anthony,” Azirafell said, louder than necessary. He forced himself to look at Beelzebub a moment, trying to not look as panicked as he felt. He swallowed thickly, hoping beyond hope that the two wouldn’t notice his sudden distress.

Anthony stops smiling, noticing the other two in the shop and the tension in the air, radiating solely around his demon. When he catches Azirafell’s eyes he holds up a package and mouths ‘chocolates,’ staying out of the view of the demons. He wasn’t planning on leaving, not until he knows what was happening.

“I don’t doubt that whoever replaces you will be as good an enemy to Anthony as you are, Ligur perhaps,” Beelzebub waves off the concern. Anthony felt dread settle deep inside him. He couldn’t let that happen! Azirafell absolutely could NOT be replaced.

Anthony looks horrified and his nose scrunches up as he bares his teeth. He starts mouthing, ‘Ligur? Ligur is a wanker!’ at Azirafell. It takes everything in the demon to not roll his eyes at that, doing his best to ignore this enough to keep the other two demons distracted.

“Anthony’s been down here just as long as I have. And he’s smart, and cunning and brilliant and oh…” Azirafell trails off at the look the other two are giving him. A flush would appear on his cheeks, but he stubbornly refused to allow that to happen.

“It almost sounds like you like him.” Beelzebub sneered, somehow managing to look down on him whilst being shorter than him.

“I loathe him. And, despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent… which he isn’t because he’s an angel, and I cannot respect an angel. Or like one.” Azirafell hurriedly corrected and then perhaps over corrected.

“That’s the attitude we like to hear. You’ll be an asset back at head office, I can tell you that.” Beelzebub snorted, smiling at the idea of saddling Azirafell with mountains of paperwork.

“So… we’re going straight back, now? Before the grand opening?” Azirafell hedged, he looked behind the pair to see that Anthony had disappeared, but the Bentley carriage was still parked in the same spot.

“Well, soon, we’ve got business here first.” Beelzebub demurred, before leaving the shop. Azirafell waited until they were well down the street before he looked out the door for Anthony, but he didn’t see the angel anywhere. Which might’ve been for the best, but it only made the demon worry more.

Anthony hid when the conversation seemed to be nearing an end. He couldn’t let them take his friend away, back to Hell. Not only would the demon be miserable down there, but Anthony would be miserable without him. And if Ligur was the one replacing Azirafell, well, he might actually have to smite something for once.

When Beelzebub and Hastur leave Anthony follows them a ways, before sneaking ahead of them and standing in an alleyway on their path. He calls down a lightning strike that the humans nearby don’t seem to notice. With a flash of his Grace, he lets out his wings, all three pairs separating, creating a wall of white wings. He calls his angelic markings on his arms to form his staff and with a minor blessing, makes himself glow. He makes his hair long, vibrant red curls down to his lower back and manifests his halo for good measure.

With all this, he’s certain he’s gotten their attention. He makes sure, pushing his senses out until he feels the two demonic presences watching him warily, before they can decide what to do about the Archangel before them, he says in a soft, nervous voice, but still loud enough to get the demon’s attentions, “Are you certain no one is listening, Archangel Raphael?”

Then, he deepens his voice and puts some of his power into his words, “ **NO ONE IS LISTENING, ANGEL ANTHONY**.” He called this his ‘Raphael Voice.’ He made sure his wings blocked off the view of the rest of the alley, so the two demons wouldn’t notice he was talking to himself.

“Oh, if only I could understand how that wily demon’s always getting one over on me. It’s as if the forces of Hell have a champion here on earth who is always one step ahead of me.” Anthony lamented, his voice still soft and nervous sounding.

“ **OH, DO NOT WORRY, ANTHONY, YOU MUST NOT BE DOWNCAST. I HEAR NEWS THAT WILL BRING JOY UNTO YOU AND ALL THE POWERS OF HEAVEN. THEY DO SAY AS HOW THE DEMON, AZIRAFELL, YOUR NEMESIS, IS BEING SENT BACK TO HELL**.” Raphael says, full of dramatic vibrato. Waving his staff around for good measure, to help sell the deception, of course.

“Can this really be true? I was going to ask him to burn me alive with Hellfire in my despair at once more being beaten by the demon, Azirafell.” Crowley perhaps was getting a little too into it, but it was kind of fun. He kept it up anyways, trying for ‘sincere’ angel, “but such excellent news! Only Azirafell knows my ways well enough to….”

“ **SPOIL THEM**?” He said, in his Raphael voice, a teasing yet commanding lilt to it.

“Exactly. Now, let us go back to Heaven, and pray to God our thanks for the Blessing She has bestowed on us.” Crowley said, and then with a snap he called lightning down once again and with a bright flash and a beat of his wings he flew off. He watched from a nearby roof top as the two demons ran into the alleyway and talked amongst themselves, before they started heading back to the pawnshop.

“So, I’m…” Azirafell floundered, thoroughly confused, “not going anywhere?” He wrung his hands nervously and messed with his cufflinks.

“Change of plans. You’re needed here. In this pawnshop. Battling Good.” Beelzebub said quickly, brokering no argument. It seemed they wanted to get away from Earth as quickly as possible, almost as if something spooked them.

“Carry on battling.” Hastur grumbled and punched Azirafell in the shoulder, much harder than necessary. Azirafell absently rubbed the filth off his shoulder.

“But I don’t understand….?” Azirafell said, but it was too late as they’d already left. The holes they left in the floor thankfully cleaning right up after them. He looked around, but sure enough, the two had left and it looked like he was staying on Earth. He went to the back room to pour himself a drink when he heard the door open and the bell jingle.

“Afraid we don’t open until Friday, we’ll have a grand opening immediately after lunch,” Azirafell called out after pouring himself a glass of wine. If he was a human he might be shaking, but he was better than that, so he didn’t.

“They still around, fiend?” Anthony called out, causing Azirafell to whip around, just in time to see the dear boy come into the back with a box of chocolates. He was back to his normal appearance: hair short, angelic markings on his arms, no halo or wings out. “Oh good, you’re still here. Erm, you _are_ still here, right?” He sat down at the table and set the box down, pushing it towards the demon a little.

“Yes, yes, it seems as I’m to be left on Earth,” Azirafell said, taking a rather large sip of wine. “Not entirely sure what happened, my dear…” He trailed off when he saw Anthony’s smirk, one that he wasn’t very good at hiding, even after all these years. “Did you do this? Keep me on Earth?”

Anthony immediately went straight-faced and then started sputtering, several half-started sentences before the angel managed to say, “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Which was clearly a lie. Didn’t think angels could lie? Well, Anthony wasn’t like other angels anyways, so maybe that was it, but he was definitely lying out his ass, and he was terrible at it. “I mean, what would I even do? Against a Prince and Duke of Hell?” He said waving a hand over the box of chocolates, going for a distraction. “They’re German, with several types of fillings, cherry, cream, rum…” Anthony said, lowering his voice, hissing slightly, a tell he was stressed.

“Well,” Azirafell said, looking from Anthony’s face to the chocolates, “that does sound lovely.” He licked his lips, before his resolve faltered and he motioned to the wine bottle he’d gotten out earlier, “could I tempt you to a glass?”

“You could,” Anthony said in a relieved sigh. After the glass was poured and Azirafell sat down at the table, Anthony offered his glass in toast, “to staying on Earth?”

“To staying on Earth,” Azirafell chinked their glasses together, then drank a deeper sip that was strictly proper. Anthony smirked once more against his glass as he took a much smaller sip. 


	7. A Terrible Quarrel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Azirafell is horrified and Anthony is defensive.

**St. James Park, London, 1862**

Anthony was standing in front of the river wearing a tall white hat and a huge white coat, tossing seeds to the ducks. Azirafell leisurely walked up to him, then took off his gloves and hat. A bag of seeds appearing in said hat. He also began throwing seeds to the ducks, waiting for Anthony to start talking. There of course, had to be a reason the angel asked him to meet.

“Look, I’ve been thinking. What if it all goes wrong?” Anthony murmured, watching the demon from the side, never looking directly at him, “We’ve got a lot in common, you and me…”

“I don’t know,” Azirafell frowned, not sure where this was going. He looked over at the angel, at his surprisingly stiff posture, something must really be bothering him. He grumbled, not at all bitter, but may as well play the part, “we may both have started out as angels, but _I’m_ Fallen.”

“Did you really fall? Or, just, you know, saunter vaguely downwards?” Anthony tried for levity, but he wasn’t really in the mood for it. He hated to ask this of Azirafell, but he was beginning to realize there might come a time that he needed what he was about to ask for, “I need a favour.”

“We already have the agreement, Anthony.” Azirafell looked once more to his companion, curious, but not out-right rejecting. A good sign, Anthony thought. The demon went back to flinging seeds at the ducks, trying to aim for their heads, “we stay out of each other’s way. Lend a hand when needed.”

“This is something else,” Anthony said, his voice carrying a strange weight to it. Like it was hard for the angel to say. His voice sounded almost sad as he continued, “for if it all goes pear-shaped.”

“I like pears,” sighed, Azirafell. He especially like pear crisp, or baked pears, or pear crostata. He was getting lost in thought now, thinking about his favourite pear dishes. Wondering if that wonderful little bakery still made that wonderful spiced pear cake.

“If it all goes _wrong_ ,” Anthony didn’t sigh, but it was a near thing. He then spoke once more, softer, not looking at his demon, he couldn’t look at him, “I want insurance.”

Azirafell emptied out any remaining crumbs or seeds from his hat, before putting it back on. He was trying to figure out what Anthony could possibly want, but it didn’t make any sense to him. They needn’t worry about life insurance, or home insurance, or auto insurance. Finally, he asked, short and clipped, “what?”

“I wrote it down,” Anthony said, as he handed a note to Azirafell. He couldn’t help the quick glance he took, turning away once the demon looked back at him. “Walls have ears. Not walls. But trees have ears. Ducks have ears. Do ducks have ears?” Anthony, thoroughly distracted now from his darker musings of earlier, was looking around, trying to see if any of the ducks had an obvious sign of ears or earholes. He seemed to decide then, “must do. That’s how they hear other ducks.”

Meanwhile, Azirafell was staring at the paper he’d unfolded. He read the simple letters multiple times, and the word never changed, neither did the meaning. He looked at his companion, hearing just the tail end of him ranting about ducks. The demon felt sick. Azirafell looked at the angel, concerned and trying to catch his eye, but managed to keep his voice reasonably calm, “out of the question.”

Anthony turned, though he still wouldn’t look Azirafell in the eye, who had fully turned his head to regard the angel. He somehow managed to keep his own voice calm, hiding the fear that simmered deep, deep down in his heart, “why not?”

Azirafell could feel the hurt bubbling up inside him, he tried to keep the waver out of his voice as he said what should have been obvious to the angel, “it would destroy you.” He pleaded, in the safety of his mind, for Anthony to understand. His eyes watched the angel’s face carefully, as tried to hand the note back, “I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Anthony.”

“That’s not what I want it for,” Anthony hissed, keeping his voice low and quiet. He took the paper just to shove it right back into Azirafell’s hand. He was finally looking at the demon, their eyes meeting for just a moment. Anthony did look quite serious, but also quite troubled. The angel growled, holding that infernal paper out, “just… Insurance.”

Azirafell took it, curse his manners, and there that horrible word was. Hellfire. In Anthony’s simple, awkward handwriting. He’d even underlined it. As if that would make it seem more important. Azirafell had to take a deep breath, and he looked at Anthony who was once more avoiding his gaze, “I’m not an idiot, Anthony.” The emotion was getting thick in his voice, so he changed tactics. “Do you know what trouble I’d get into if—” he cut himself off, looking down then, as if Hell really was listening in, “if they knew I’d been fraternising?” Azirafell had to look away, as Anthony’s gaze was on him, and he’d begun to look upset, but he chugged on, “it’s completely out of the question.”

“Fraternising?” Anthony hissed; teeth bared in an all too familiar angry snarl. He had this unsightly tendency to bare his teeth when angry. It would’ve been adorable to see the angel trying to be intimidating, if Azirafell wasn’t so mad at him.

“Well,” Azirafell huffed, rolling his head, just barely not rolling his eyes, “whatever you wish to call it.” He took a quick breath and tried to calm himself, he hadn’t _wanted_ to fight after all. He’d hoped they’d go for a walk, have some dinner together, do some catching up. Instead, he was given this damned note. _Hellfire._ “I do not think there is any point in discussing it further,” Azirafell turned away, trying to keep himself under control.

“I have lots of other people to fraternise with, fiend,” Anthony hissed, the lie falling heavily from his tongue. He knew, somewhere inside him that he was just being defensive. That he was hissing and rattling his tail, but only to hide his hurts and fears. That he was pushing, before the fiend could push him away once more.

“Oh, of course, you do,” Azirafell muttered, this time he did roll his eyes, but he held it until he was turned away. Back to the angel, as he began walking away, all he could see in his mind was _Hellfire_.

“I don’t need you,” Anthony managed to keep his voice steady. His teeth were still bared, his posture still stiff, his cane was gripped tight, white gloves hiding a white-knuckled grip.

“The feeling is mutual,” Azirafell finally snapped, only just keeping himself together corporeally. “Obviously!” He snapped, throwing that horrid note into the river. It didn’t sail like he hoped but rather fluttered down to land on the water, in his anger he caused the very note asking for _Hellfire_ to burn with it. He tried to save face by huffing and walking away, waves of anger rolling off him, causing people around him to practically jump out of the demon’s way.

“ObViOuSlY,” Anthony mocked. He stayed there. Unable to force himself to leave. He couldn’t really allow himself to hope Azirafell would be the one returning this time. That it wouldn’t be up to him to fix things after one of their little tiffs. Anthony waited there, staring at the ducks until well after even the birds left, and it was quite dark. He took his glasses off then and just stared into the murky water all night.


	8. Would've Rather Just Gone to the Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthony invents James Bond, and Azirafell goes overboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene and the next are going to differ the most from canon. Also, man this was a long chapter compared to the others so far.

**London, 1941**

The sounds of sirens filled the empty streets. The war had been going on for 2 years now. Anthony of course, had played an active (Azirafell might say _too active_ if they were on speaking terms) part in helping people. There were other things Anthony would rather be doing, he was rather exhausted from all the good he’d been doing, but he was here on a mission.

He entered the church, a rather imposing building with blacked out windows. It might seem silly, but Anthony was glad to be conducting this meeting on consecrated ground. It felt like he had the advantage, which, of course he did. He walked to the aisle before taking off his hat. In his other hand he had a rather large wicker basket. If it was heavy, it didn’t show.

He walked down the aisle, smiling idly. He let a bit of the fun of acting like a real MI6 type character bubble up in him. He regarded the two Nazis in front of him, sitting at a table in front of the alter. Although not normally one for being polite, he made a point to address the two men, nodding at each when he said their name, “Mr. Glozier. Mr. Harmony.”

“Mr. Crowley. You are late,” the shorter one, Mr. Glozier, said with a German accent. He was holding his pocket watch in his hand. The sight of the time piece idly reminded him of Azirafell, but they weren’t talking, so he brushed the demon from his mind. Mr. Glozier smiled then, and put his watch away, “but not to worry.”

“You have the _items_ for the Führer?” Mr. Harmony said, as he stood and motioned to the large wicker basket. The taller, mousey man’s accent was quite thickly German. He made no attempt to hide it, and it was partly why he was meeting Anthony in an empty church.

“Yes, I do,” Anthony walked forward, reverently setting the wicker basket on the table. He opened the lid for the two gentlemen to see. Inside the basket was an assortment of plants, as well as a large amount of the shiniest, most beautiful, pristine red apples. He took a step back as Mr. Harmony began taking items out. With each item, Anthony explained what it was, “Poisonous plants. Rosary Pea, _Abrus precatorius_ ; White Snakeroot, _Ageratina altissima_ ; and of course, Aconite, or Monkshood, if you will, _Aconitum napellus_. All extremely deadly. As requested.”

“What about the other plant we told you to bring us?” Mr. Harmony asked while the two men touched Anthony’s plants, the absolute fools. Aconite could cause severe reactions through touch alone. This one of course, didn’t, as it had better manners. Mr. Harmony continued talking, looking briefly at Anthony, before examining the apples, “The Führer was most definite that he needed it. It has the fruit of knowledge. With the tree, bearing fruit all year round, the war is as good as won.”

“The original apple tree, from the Garden of Eden,” Anthony said, barely withholding himself from laughing in the man’s face. Eden was not a place on Earth, well, aside from his own personal Eden in Mayfair. But the original Garden was not some place a human could go, and angels needed to fill out paperwork these days to get in, not that it was really worth it. Still, Anthony delighted in telling him, a little smugly, “no luck. I’m afraid that’s the Holy Grail of plants.”

“The Führer also wants the Holy Grail,” Mr. Glozier said, drawing Anthony’s attention back to him from where he was inspecting the poisonous plants. “And the Spear of Destiny. If you run across them.” Anthony bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from sneering at the human. Instead he smiled sardonically, the best they were going to get.

“What about your apple tree? It fruits all year around, in your shop called Eden. Very unusual indeed,” Mr. Harmony asked, looking at Anthony’s plants with a magnifying glass, as if that’d help him verify the plants were truly the poisonous ones that they were. He looked at Anthony then, smiling, like he wasn’t talking about Anthony uprooting _his_ apple tree, “we have made it clear that money is no object. You will be a very rich man.”

“I’m afraid my apple tree is just that, a plain, old apple tree,” Anthony stressed, jaw slightly tense. He had to remind himself then, to play the game, to channel the character he’d made up just for this, James Bond. Dashing, debonair spy-human. “I did, however, think you might be interested in it, so I’ve brought something more.”

“What is it?” Mr. Harmony was interested once more. His bitter and upset look turned into a more suitable curiosity. He had a gaping, open mouth smile, which Anthony thought made him look quite vacant.

“This is a cutting from the tree,” Anthony opened his jacket, where he pulled what looked to be a branch out. He held the branch gently, adoringly, before setting it down on the table for the two men to inspect.

“And what use is this?” Mr. Glozier asked, as incompetent as Anthony not-so-secretly thought of him.

“Well, you can plant it and grow your own bleeding apple tree,” annoyance finally made it into Anthony’s voice as he grew tired of dealing with these Nazis. The joy of pulling one over on them was starting to wane with how bothersome they were. “In the meantime, as you can see, I gifted you some apples from my own tree. Do take care to eat those soon, as they’ll good bad in about 2 weeks.”

“I will pass it on to the Führer,” Mr. Harmony was smiling, as he handed the branch to Mr. Glozier, who was adjusting and placing the plants and apples into a leather bag. One that hadn’t been large enough to hold all the flora until just recently.

“These plants will be in Berlin by the end of the week. The Führer will be most grateful.” Mr. Glozier finished by placing the branch in the bag and closing it while Anthony watched to make sure none of the plants were squished by the bag. Really, they could’ve taken the wicker basket—well, they wouldn’t be taking anything, Anthony reminded himself.

“You have been most helpful, Mr. Crowley,” Mr. Harmony smiled that open-mouthed vacant smile once more. He turned and reached down under the table, by his chair, and pulled up a paper bag that he set on the table. “Here is your money. Count it. It is all there.”

“Oh, good,” Anthony drawled, not at all concerned about human money. He didn’t really get a chance to step forward and pretend to be interested though, as the click of a gun cocking stopped him.

“Such a pity you must be eliminated, Mr. Crowley,” Mr. Glozier was pointing a gun at his chest as he finally stood up. Anthony couldn’t stop the sly smile on his face as he looked down his nose at the man. It took a moment, but he managed to school his expression as the Nazi continued his nattering, “but take heart, just another death in the Blitz.”

“That’s not very sporting,” Anthony pouted, still trying to contain his giddiness as the gig was up and soon these wankers would be off behind bars.

“You do not appear worried, my friend.” Mr. Glozier’s face was morphing into concerned while Anthony was trying not to bounce on his heels.

Another gun cocks, and it takes everything in him not to turn to look at the woman walking up behind him. Her heels click loudly on the floor as she moves to stand in the centre of the aisle, “he’s not worried.”

“Who is she?” Mr. Harmony once more had his open-mouthed expression.

Anthony puffed up proudly, before explaining, “she, my double-dealing Nazi acquaintance, is the reason why none of these plants are ever going to Berlin, and why your nasty little spy ring will be spending the rest of the war behind bars. Let me introduce you to Captain Rose Montgomery of British Military Intelligence.”

As the woman walked up to stand beside Anthony, Mr. Glozier raised his hands up in the universal, ‘do-not-shoot’ gesture. Mr. Harmony shortly followed suit. She smiled at Anthony as he looked quickly from her to the pair of Nazis, “thank you for the introduction.”

“Our side knows all about you two,” Anthony was nodding eagerly, a little wobble made its way into his movements as he casually leaned against the pew with one hand. He jerked his head back to indicate the woman behind him, “she recruited me to ‘work’ for you. Now, she’s going to tell you that this building is surrounded by British agents, and that you two have been—what’s that lovely American expression? Played for suckers.” His excitement was steadily ramping up as he looked at Mr. Glozier and Mr. Harmony with their hands still up in the air.

“Yes, about that….” Rose began, but Anthony wasn’t paying her any mind.

“Right,” He cut her off with a shout, before she could finish, too caught up in the excitement, “everyone! Come on! Round them up!” He looks around growing more nervous as no one shows up. “Rose, where exactly are your people?”

Mr. Harmony and Mr. Glozier lower their hands, both smiling. Mr. Harmony especially looks pleased when he says with a little laugh, “we are all here.”

“Allow me to introduce Fräulein Greta Kleinschmidt.” Mr. Glozier says as Anthony sees movement out of the corner of his eye. He turns, only to startle at having a gun pointed directly at his face from the human he thought he had been working with. “She works with us.” Anthony lets out a little outraged gasp at the deception.

Mr. Glozier comes around the table to stand next to ‘Rose’ or, Greta, as she was actually known. He then speaks to her in German, possibly to further drive home the point that Anthony has been the only one deceived here, “Du hast den scheiß Floristen verarscht, Gute Arbeit Schatz.”

“Es war nicht schwer, Schatz. Er ist sehr leichtgläubig,” she smiles at Mr. Glozier, before looking disappointed at Anthony. He’s pretty sure he’s just been insulted. He looks between them all before keeping his eyes on Mr. Harmony who’s also begun to move around.

“Played for a sucker. I must remember that.” Mr. Harmony waggles his finger at Anthony, smiling like this was the best joke he’d heard all year. He turns his back to Anthony to pack up the bag of poisonous plants and pick up his gun. “I am played for a sucker, you are played for a sucker, he, she, or it,” he giggles, “will be played for a sucker.”

As Mr. Harmony turns around with the bag in his hand, Mr. Glozier demands Anthony’s attention. “Now, where were we? Oh yes, killing you.” Greta adjusts her hold on the gun.

Anthony’s backed up against one of the pews, and all he can do is sputter, angry, betrayed, indignant, “You can’t kill me!” And after a beat, because he is an angel with his priorities in order, “there will be paperwork!”

The sound of the church door banging open has all of them looking to see who could possibly- “Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow-ow-ow! Ow!” Muted horror fills Anthony then. He knows that voice. Shortly there’s _his_ demon hopping about like one of those birds you see at the market, on his way down the aisle as Greta turns her gun on him. “Sorry! Ow! Consecrated ground! It’s like being at the beach in bare feet.”

On one hand, Anthony is relieved to see his friend again, on the other, what the bloody hell was a demon doing on consecrated ground! Anthony hisses, he’s stressed and can’t help it, “what are you doing here?!”

“Stopping you from getting into trouble.” Azirafell has the nerve to look upset at him! He wasn’t the one hopping about, burning his poor feet! “Ow!” _Exactly my point!_

“I should have known,” Anthony looks up towards Heaven briefly. While it was unbearably touching that the demon would risk his feet, or worse, to save Anthony, he could’ve just sent a letter. He looks around, remembering they had an audience, and this wasn’t the best time for a reunion. “Of course. These people are working for you.” Not that he _actually_ believed that.

“No!” Azirafell sounded properly offended. He leans against a pew as he switches from foot to foot, trying to look dignified all the while and failing adorably. “They’re a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies running about London, blackmailing and murdering people.” He huffed, then took another step towards Anthony, sounding suddenly softer, more soothing, “I just didn’t want to see you embarrassed.” He snarls and starts walking away, “Ow! Ow!”

“The mysterious A. Z. Fell,” Mr. Glozier says, getting Azirafell’s attention again so he turns around to regard the Nazi spies who were actively in the middle of blackmailing and murdering people. Or, in this case, an angel. “Your fame precedes you.”

“A. Z. Fell?” Anthony whips his head around to look at Azirafell, unbearably intrigued by this, even though he well knows Azirafell’s been using the ‘human’ name for well over a century now. He never has gotten the story out of him.

“You don’t like it?” Azirafell fixes him with a _look_. One that said, ‘ _Dear boy, are you seriously going to bring this up now, of all times?_ ’

“No, I didn’t say that,” Anthony says smiling a little. He’d get the story out of him, one of these days. “I’ll get used to it.”

“The famous Mr. Fell?” Greta looked the demon up and down, a slight impressed? certainly not _flirtatious_ smile, on her face. “Such a pity you must both die.”

Azirafell had the nerve to tip his hat at her, the woman trying to kill them both. So, being the not-at-all-petty angel that he was, Anthony decides to get them back on track to what really matters, “what does the Z stand for?”

“It’s just a Z,” Azirafell says, long-suffering, before stressing, “ _really_.” He’s looking around, hopping from foot to foot when he sees, the stone font. “Look at _that_. A whole font-full of holy water. It doesn’t even have guards.” He seems scandalized, like there would be such a need to have guards around it. It was only dangerous to him. Which is why it wouldn’t be going anywhere near the demon. 

“Enough babbling! Kill them both,” Mr. Glozier says as he walks away. Greta starts to point her gun back towards Anthony.

“In about a minute,” Azirafell says, walking quickly back over from where he’d been hopping away again. He draws the attention back to himself, though to his irritation, Greta keeps the gun pointed at Anthony, “a German bomber will release a bomb that will land right here.” He points to the ground as if it really needed emphasis. “If you all run away very, VERY fast,” he glances at Anthony, “you might not die. You won’t enjoy dying, and you definitely won’t enjoy what comes after.” This he last part he says, staring directly at Greta.

“You expect us to believe that? The bombs tonight will fall on the East End.” Mr. Glozier appears completely calm and looking thoroughly unimpressed by ‘the mysterious A. Z. Fell.’

“Yes,” Azirafell perks up a bit, even as he leans against a pew again to take some weight off his burning feet. “It would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw them off course, yes.” _Oh, no, he didn’t,_ Anthony looks at Azirafell. “You are wasting all your valuable running-away time!”

Anthony looks around slyly, but none of the others are buying it. Of course, they wouldn’t, they’re human. He looks back at Azirafell when he says, “And if, in thirty seconds,” ah, there’s the pocket watch, “a bomb does land here, it would take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it.” He’s raising his eyebrows and nodding his head.

 _Yes, fiend, I got it._ “A real miracle?” He drawls, and nods, just a slight uptick of his head.

Azirafell locks eyes with Anthony for a moment, until Anthony looks down again. Azirafell starts hopping once more, backwards this time, keeping an eye on the gun still pointed at his dear boy.

“Kill them! They are very irritating,” Mr. Harmony goes waves a dismissive hand and goes to collect his things. Except, Azirafell throws his hands up in a flourish and sure enough, there’s a whistling noise of a bomb falling. Everyone except Azirafell looks up, and of those that do, only Anthony is smiling and completely unsurprised.

The bomb completely destroys the church, leaving just him and his demon standing in the wreckage. He takes his glasses off so he can clean the soot off them, while he looks around. Anything that did manage to survive was on fire, including, somehow, a stone bird statue that he thinks would look lovely in his shop.

“That was very kind of you,” he smiles fond, and soft. Watching as Azirafell steps gingerly on the wreckage, finally having enough insulation from the consecrated ground.

“Shut up,” Azirafell snarls, but he’s smiling too, doing just as bad a job of hiding it.

“Well, it was. No paperwork for a start,” Anthony laughs a little. Perhaps he really just had to wait long enough, because this time, Azirafell came back first. He’s still smiling until he realizes— “The plants! Oh! I forgot all the plants!” He’d been so focused on protecting himself and Azirafell, he forgot all about them. “They’ll have been blown to…” he trails off as he sees Azirafell walk over.

He reaches down near Anthony and rips the bag of plants out of the dead Mr. Harmony’s hand. How had he not noticed that? “Little demonic miracle of my own,” Azirafell says with a cheeky smile as he hands the bag over. Their fingers brush and Anthony has never felt warmer, despite what past experiences would lead one to believe.

“Can I get a lift home?” Azirafell is walking away while Anthony is still processing that his demon, his beloved friend, came to get him out of trouble, and managed to cast a demonic miracle on consecrated ground, just to see him happy.

Azirafell is already at the pristine, white Bentley, waiting when Anthony comes back to his senses and all but runs over. He opens the door for Azirafell, and then kneels down on the dirty street. The poor demon is completely startled by this, immediately thinking something is wrong, “Anthony? Dear boy, whatever is the matter?”

“Take ‘em off,” Anthony says, voice thick. He’ll blame the soot and ash, definitely not the emotions threatening to burst out of his chest. “Your shoes, an’ socks, take em off.”

“Oh,” Azirafell sighs, but he starts rolling up his trouser leg. He has to unclip his sock garters, which was a surprise Anthony’s heart didn’t need at the moment. It doesn’t take long for Azirafell to have the first sock and shoe off for Anthony’s inspection. “I’m not sure even you can heal this, Anthony. But really, it’s not so bad.”

 _True. Anthony the angel could not heal this_ , he thinks as he examines Azirafell’s foot. _But Raphael, Archangel of Healing might._ And truthfully, the burns wouldn’t have been that bad, if they weren’t a Holy burn. “Alright, let me see the other one too. Gonna give it a shot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://positivepumpkin.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
